by David H. Haight, copywrite 2009
Donna Maria Constanza, after carefully verifying his identity, admitted the thin, pale-faced envoy to a dark little room where he discovered a glowering male seated in a wheelchair at the dining room table before a rapidly cooling egg, ensconced in its dapper little white cup. A late breakfast had been interrupted at the cost of rising irritation.
The former CEO looked up from an aged, sagging face whose eyelids drooped deeply, exposing a sickly pink inner lining. One’s impression was uncomfortably similar to that felt when emerging from sleep’s hidden dream world after a tortured shocker — remembering masses of tired flesh dropping away in slow motion. The whole visage appeared as melting wax or sagging putty on a hot, humid day. Little humanity showed in that mask, only a hard, cold intelligence glowing through large, pale, blue eyes faded by time — excessive sun leaving each socket bland with the warmth of a tepid bath.
“Be seated,” he growled in a flat monotone. His wife, the frail looking but spritely Donna Maria Constanza, seated herself purposefully opposite him at the end of a long teakwood table. His days as absolute master of his destiny – or so he thought — was still noticeable in the tone of voice, i.e., imperious, crisply cold, his orders not to be questioned. It was a compassionless, hollow voice used to rigorous command and timely obedience.
Ignoring his visitor, the old gentleman gazed out the window while vaguely recounting aloud an unsolicited resume of his life laboring for Great Eastern Oil. That is: Many years in the Middle East, then five years in Buenos Aires, and so back to London early in WWII. London office soon sent him out to the Dutch Antilles to supervise all operations there until war’s end. Shortly thereafter he retired to pursue the good life amongst wealthy aristocrats from around the world accompanied, of course, by his ever-faithful Donna Maria. For a number of years their lives seemed to center about large white-washed hillside villas scattered upon privately owned little islands in the Aegean Sea punctuated with yachting parties ‘midst lakes of champagne — all those privately policed hidden backwaters for the privileged few – all before the Arab Emirates became the hugely profitable glitzy place to be.
“Ah, yes” he dreamily murmured, followed by a long pause and sigh as a rainbow of memories overwhelmed him, reflected in a voice so darkly empty as to send unbidden shivers up ones spine. An irresistible nostalgic wave pulled him back once again into all the dark places to view his deeply hidden private acts, while unsought pain catapulted through the rotting body, twisting his face into a wrinkled, macabre grin.
No! He really didn’t give a d–n just who this annoying little man really was. Merely another hired menial come to tidy up an entanglement from his very recent past, to relieve him from the last tiresome responsibility. The visitor acted only as a temporary goad to be plucked and tossed aside.
They had phoned him from the local music association that he had helped found requesting he return all old documents in his possession so that they might maintain a continuous record for archival purposes. Of course – how very correct — very logical indeed! Bah! A sweet disposition wasn’t his forte these days, if ever there that had been so in his makeup.
He looked past his unwelcome guest to meet his partner’s steady, watchful gaze. Those little ferret eyes missed few details surrounding her master’s worldly affairs as she tirelessly policed his perimeter. Sighing deeply, he reflected on their initial meeting and how over the years they had perfected a purposeful non-verbal communication — a unique, very precise body language. Chuckling inwardly he easily read her unease at his reminiscing which might move him further away from what must be done. And, of course, on top of everything these days she was ever at him to forgive his own son and reinstate him to the family bosom, and his rightful inheritance.
He shuddered, thinking back upon that early morning incident long ago during which he destroyed his son’s room, smashing everything in sight, raging out of control, ordering his son out of the house, disowning him. The boy’s “artistic” endeavors and quirky friends left him cold as ice and inwardly furious. What a wastrel!
They stood there after the storm, glaring at each other. Jason impotent in his frozen silence, his face shifting from pale rage running through disbelief to fear and ending in overwhelming sadness as once again he realized his father would never ever understand him, much less even try to accept him as he was.
Of course it was natural for the boy to turn to his mother, Donna Maria, for moral support and more. The old man knew how well Donna Maria held her inner strength and even if they had been very close for so many years, he feared that if he had tried to rein her in to reject their son, she would have left him utterly alone to drown amongst his memories – left him literally.
The remembered sight of those two boys asleep in each other’s arms awoke all the dying man’s boyhood fears and frustrations. Sad, he thought, he never had something to hug, someone to love – not even a close boyhood friend with whom he could share secrets and explore life’s possibilities. . . nothing.
Immediately after his destructive rampage Donna Maria couldn’t calm him for hours. In the end he had collapsed sobbing deeply, swearing he would never welcome his son again. Never!
As the years rolled by he openly denied Jason’s very existence, refusing to discuss whatever scraps of family news floated in from the outer world. His reaction was silence — bleak, empty silence.
The old man dropped his gaze while rumbling and mumbling at her like a crippled lion on the Veldt forced to defend his territory while inwardly he continued his miserable commentary. “That good-for-nothing sycophantic son of mine deserves nothing more from me. Always working away at me through her is he — squeezing more and more out of me to support his dilettantish dabbling about in various arcane artistic projects — never completing anything. What rubbish! My blood flows in his veins and to what end? She expects me to take him back as if nothing were amiss — as if nothing had happened? As if that would in any way honor our relationship? Ha!
Despite everything he would occasionally curb his anger, his feelings of rage and admit in the privacy of contemplation that Donna Maria had a point. “The boy is after all of my seed — whatever his tastes in human relationships. Gods! What a dilemma. What am I to do? Damn it all, why can’t he be like me?”
Thus it was he sighed his way into a long, long pause, before continuing under his breath, “Never ever had time to explore life for myself — had to work like a beaver to stay on top of things — correcting all those half-baked, ignorant little minds, those pathetic underlings. They never could see the whole picture, much less want to. Oh, Christ, enough of this. Basta! I must get on with it.”
Donna Maria flushed from out of Mexico City society after his early retirement ended his celibate life. She now observed her old companion with increasing anxiety, her tiny coal black eyes burning into him as she forced her will to master his gaze. Their only child, Jason, had been a late and unexpected arrival, soon becoming the joy of her heart.
“Would he remember the purpose of this encounter?” she thought. Her tight, spidery face held a peculiarly avaricious fierceness as she obeyed his wishes. ”He’s the Boss!” she clipped at their visitor, slipping on a mechanical grin that indicated she took no responsibility for whatever actually occurred between her keeper and this odd little man.
One could not ignore the old gentleman’s great fleshy hands flopping meaninglessly about, shaking uncontrollably — rather like tired fish flipped out of deep seawater. He tried to briefly remember how good life had been, but his miserable legs tortured him without mercy.
Grimacing in extreme discomfort he abruptly nodded to Donna Maria to fetch those bothersome boxes and turn everything over to the waiting functionary. Their contents no longer held any meaning or interest for him — just more terminal memories, more noisome responsibilities to be shed.
Donna Maria Constanza reappeared shortly thereafter with a number of battered file boxes containing long lists of names, carefully inscribed on 3 X 5 index cards, financial memos, old program notes and numerous faded letters. Dropping her musty armload upon the table with an emphatic thud she thus advertised her desire to see this lot removed forthwith.
Absent-mindedly nodding towards his guest the old man waved his relinquished boxes towards the front entrance, his great white hands seeming to sweep the mass as well as his uncomfortable visitor out the front door and beyond any further consideration. “Thank God I’m free of that,” he thought, and bade his duly cowed visitor a curtly, dry farewell. The portals gently closed leaving him to reconsider his cold egg sitting there reminding him of his mortality — his fast-approaching demise — the inevitable accounting — la cuenta — the foggy wall to be encountered — all that rot!
“Amusing, isn’t it, how very indifferent the world is to one’s private suffering,” he rasped as a huge flabby hand slowly encircled and crushed the cold egg, strewing ruin all about to Donna Anna’s annoyance.
Unbidden shadows returned to haunt him while once again he grimly reviewed the sharply outlined personal records of those he had vanquished during long years as the Chief Executive Officer, a royally favored CEO.
Smiling grimly to himself he acknowledged having been bought — and well-rewarded, too — as the ultimate executioner and front man for those tight-fisted major stockholders whose insatiable greed and behind-the-scenes maneuvering threatened to sink the very ship they exploited. How they used me, he recalled, shrugging indifferently at such memories and feeling little regret at this remove. “After all, it was wartime. We had to survive. Everything changed so fast. We — I had to do it!” he grumbled, remembering a few particular souls he had sent into nameless obscurity never to be heard from again.
Something about their eyes still troubled him even after all these many years. He almost looked forward to setting it straight on the other side — if there was such a place — seeking a final peace beyond those accusing faces. Occasionally he wondered how they had fared, grimacing uncomfortably as his mind contemplated so many unpleasant scenarios.
From the dark hallway Donna Maria glimpsed a tear slither snakelike down through the deep creases of this, old, dying man’s face — now so filled with regret. She shivered, at once attracted to his sadness and yet equally repelled, as if peering into a long-covered, deep well. Scrabbling about at the back of her mind echoed the dictum that this moldering human wreck must live long enough to sign the final papers restoring his son at last to the family and to his fair inheritance.
“He must — he has to!” her mind screamed. Thoughts of her beloved son, Jason, and his many struggles to survive as an artist overcame her as she barely suppressed a sob. Even then, she shrank from all that was soon to come. Devoutly crossing her-self with a slight bow of the head she emerged like a tiny purposeful breeze from her private hiding place, the little observation niche at the end of the hall. Dressed in her usual black shift enhanced by puffy shoulders — he liked that — she appeared ready to perform her duties for yet another tenuous day.
Winding up the inner steel coil of self she remained always ready for the pounce. Not too soon, just at the right moment. After all, he is recalling his past and softening a little. Regret is sneaking in upon him. Patience is your key, her mind cautioned.
Purring softly behind a fixed smile she cleared the table and carefully wheeled her loving partner to his desk, her mind silently echoing its cautionary warning:
“Not too soon — take care — await just the right moment!
–o0o–
